I Sit Outside A Lot (pt. one)
Born in Edinburgh in January 1990, the painter and poet Sophie Fairfaw graduated from the University of Brighton in summer 2012 with a First-Class Honours Degree in Fine Art (Painting). Following residencies in the UK and China, she concentrated on developing her practice in Brighton and Hove where she obtained a two-year Visiting Artist contract with the University of Brighton painting department: she later travelled back to China and parts of Europe for a selection of art projects and participated in some major and very well-received group and solo shows throughout the UK.
Edinburgh-based, Fairfaw continues her devotion to pushing the boundaries of what art is and can be, and, more importantly, how it can be communicated.
“Overall, I am a committed artist who is devoted to a system of continuous practice and my relationship to art is straightforward: I want to make. Making art, for me, is instinctive. That continuous conversation between the artwork and my movements is a dialogue I crave and thrive within; I feel empowered when I paint, I obtain order when I write.”
original words as intended
There are day’s where my head is riddled with suicide.
The body responds mechanically manic.
As concrete, static, mind panics clamps on, so I slap on a cosy comfort jumper as some type of stability for the stained hostility and the logic that fills upwards in this transfixed, bewitched structure.
Most days, it’s pretty fucked up.
I’m unable to conduct optimism for the days feeble churn and unstable turns of self-concern.
Rigorously haunted by some embedded nonsense deliberately sightseeing me misled.
I'm a miserable well-being, misread for the time being as a level-headed human being.
I’m magnificently rewired some useless and savage, undesired balance of mismanaged horseplay packed packages stacked high within the compact archways of my inner classified passageways.
Each day’s drenched in masses of trespassing train carriages, carrying bags of damaging day-to-day challenges. Baggage allowances surpass, my interiors collapse and I’m entrapped in the railway tracks of a serious relapse.
Sacks of incensed attacks disembark and drench almost all my remaining lucid marks, in a host of entrenched ghosts.
Who prance pillar to post to the classic, Thriller, ‘kill her’, dance. They rock a top-notch crotch grab, then moonwalk to Rembrandt toned chants, that full body lift and twist me.
Like spaghetti sprawled on a spoon, I’m a tight-fisted confetti ball of mental abuse, an unsteady, character recluse, threaded within hysterical truths - all loaded with claustrophobic, hear-say stolen reviews.
I’m stuck sharing this cell with this meddling mirror tenant.
This horrible red-headed, fuck-wit minded menace, who grips with continuous guilt trip constrains that gains the reins of a bloodstained ownership.
My very own, home-grown foreign exchange student, but what the fuck I exchanged her for, I don’t know.
This filthy rage ball of playfully puzzled headgear, who, whenever premiered, is a boxing ring range of engineered dark-dimmed atmosphere.
Whichever fear, I’m her approachable, emotional volunteer and she’s forever my puppet string pioneer -popping flawless stunts, that smear as faultless, fast-paced manhunts.
Cause this cunts, acquired a fear inspiring, Loonytoon admired, Speedy Gonzales forefront. Plastering my priorities in this limber-figured bastard who indoor skips with iconic thoughts that dot to dot lock, fuck-knot me, struck clotted, clogged, in titanic-rotted dialogues classically rapid like Sonic the hedgehog.
It's kind of like getting ‘Edge Fucked’ by an Aids infested slut, in a traffic congested pick-up truck.
Finger stretched at my clenched, shit bucket entrance, and I’m pounded interrupted, till I’m wrenched reconstructed.
Got a fuck ton of human movement surrounding me but the demons proved grooming overpowers me, and gagged corrupted whimpers, stand as unheard weeping whispers.
It’s a blood drenched bobby event, bounded without consent, I’m Pretzel pressed and fucked till the intake of a squirt.
Laid helpless and breathless, I’m a fucking mentalist to think I’ll strengthen whit and dismember these split-minded, bitch-binded misfits.
See minutely, I gotta flippantly misguide the stride of these cunts, so outside I can forefront some chump with ‘grab life by the bollocks’ stunts.
Pure posting photos of nature treasure hunts, like ‘hey, I’m so happy, yay, gleeful jump’.
It’s exhausting, being happy when all you want to feel is nothing.
A comfortably numb outcome is only costing fury haunting for my loved ones.
And I ken sailing a bail trail is recognized as a selfish, self-centred scented surrender but it’s stupendously rendered mad more tender than that you ignorant twat. It’s the only route, to block out and mute the bullying interview booth, of abusive disputes I’ve had since my adult-youth.
So, judgmental schmucks can get ti fuck, chatting smack with your spine aligned, unconfined from a hunchback of holds ups. Bouncing back from a hard-knock with a controlled, airlock enriched, point of view. Good for you. A grown-up, bundled up, through no fault of your own-mistaken, unbeknown to a body-assault-break-in.
Ken ye cannae understand this out of hand, no man’s land, eh, but nobody chooses to feel this way.
And it really does suck having to see your face every day.
Back assigned, a heavily embedded fall back, built-in backpack, filled to the brim with threaded, jet black-sacks of playback loaded attacks. Handling a luggage rack of amplified anxiety tactics requiring a fuck ton of head massage practice. That honest to god’s untouched knob, is a flawlessly disrupting day job, with an age off, beasts feasting on ecstatic-wrapped feeding platters.
A blame splatter scatter of charismatic gift baskets lay stacked alongside a racket of Red Rover departure games that tear me apart cause despite all the niceness of my heart, I was never welcomed.
I cry a lot on these days, I basically cry a lot.
Face slapstick sweltered in a Black Death smothered plague, as if my airways are laced sheltered in a thick snot paste.
Every breath in the day strays away to a lung hilltop, where it just stops.
As a flopped, defaced raindrop, plopped on top of some weighted crop-bubbles.
This fucking swamp-safari of rejected braced-breaths lay placed, on the rooftop of an un-popped army barrack, stocked with tons, of muddy, blood dressed, chest compressing guns, and barrels filled, with camouflaged protests of progressive, twat-talking tongues.
Pressures pressed and laced cemented so each breath roars suppressed within the troubled huddles of their imbalanced struggles. Then boundaries soar boundless, and I begin drowning, in a merry-go-round of fucked up surroundings.
Black and white plumages plummet the summit of my stomach then scrummage through the damaged sewer sea clots of my sour soul-pot, plotting topics allotted by a hypnotic bitch-talking warren.
These dotted, horrid-monsters, that rampage rummage through my unwrapped rubbish bins, like introvert experts conversed within, immersed unpinned, the feathery fuck-wit, loony-bin-puffins, swim free with encouraging, self-discouraging spoken-sins.
That body spin, slap, bombard me, I’m stranded, hands strapped and guarded.
As if I’m blindfolded and black market sold in court to brawl with Voldemort.
Feels like I only just stumbled back from the Disney star Jafar’s desert attack.
Squirting with a haystack of unstitched scars, from the cunts snake stick that doubled up as a grown-up’s foreign object.
But I got to get jacked for an animated comeback.
So, I look Voldy-pie in the eye and boldly amplify,
“Here, I’m gonna make Potter’s magic smacks look like a few bitch slaps eh, I’ll bloodshed-shred ye mate. Glue a Hufflepuff cap to your egg head and trap ye in a sunbed, ye cat-nosed chode, c’mon ye cunt, square the fuck goes”
His broken agony bashfully face-plants me and I’m preciously helpless, interrogated and defenceless against any weighted or pint-sized real-life crisis.
And yesterday was much like this.
And when it’s a really bad day, tummy-sack to head-wrack rocks forth too sideways relentlessly.
And my face is itchy. Hands mad twitchy.
Fingertips romance prance in a percussion partnership dance, that like all relationships, flip in rhythmical stance leadership.
My flesh is favoured to a strong squirm of deadly numb flavours, savoured as heavily modulated wings of edgy skin. Meaning discombobulated limbs lie senselessly slummed, hung past my hips, and from my bum.
I’m a timid walking mistress, overwhelmed by everyone and yells of morbid tellings, that dwell and binge on the unhinged.
Marching with a suspicious swiftness, I’m trapped in a rotating, checkmate celebration-stuck inside a forcefield with an undesired alien.
My fears emptied and heaved to trotters-by with mad hatters-eye, the cash cows in the eyebrows.
Tottering, foot-lock latched without give to the pavement.
My chins aliened like stacked taco shells, jam-packed full with fat materials.
Bookworm gripped, solving a spunk-ton of Crayola Crayon mysterium-a long run of unwanted, dwelled upon thought raping marathons with durations of lush lonely sensations, promoting a rush of cosy isolation.
But all the same, settling in a socializing motion’s a different barrel of badgers, with blistering carols of jibber-jabber.
I become a knitted act of laughter-wrapped speech art, rocking an incredible thinking-cap of quickly formed come-backs.
Embracing any surrounding soundtrack that blocks out the medical amount of pounding drawbacks.
Cracks braced on a face laced with a packed, ‘gift of the gab’ north to south racing, mouth-trap-sack.
Cue a jigsaw of fast-paced, enthusiastic outbreaks-Funny-funny, HA-HA-HA, on a hoopla-hurrah seesaw, laugh-laugh, JOKE-JOKE, standing out like a giraffe doing the butterfly stroke, round a Scottish town’s water compound.
But to avoid a public meltdown, fake-great clay mouldings, the only straight-laced way to no Broadway yourself unfolding.
On command, I can whip-out an impressive platter of diverse subject matters or in high-demand that’s dandy, I’ll knock out an expressive clatter of clockwork flattery.
Somewhere between Fresh Prince of Belair happy and ‘beware, she’s mad chatty’.
I’m a patter-filled banter-pack, self-built as right top crack.
But the head-fuck, bomb-bobsled jumps created from inventing an overinflated, fabricated chump, is I become lost in that mentality, and it’s difficult to locate normality cause sometimes I cannae separate the personalities.
And then these demoralizing rants, conclude a ‘crazy-lady’ growing chant advantage, that’s fully steamed, which gets my body beamed, head-fuck occupied and bursting at the seams. Cause I’m colonized in some character compromised self-rejecting life sentence. Where every thought’s clamped to a surreal squeal of relentlessly-scentless strikes and a crash-landing, of stylised unsportsmanlike spikes.
Oh, my love. What a stain to have your soul, eh.
Controlling heavy and consistent thoughts that forcibly dock, for a daunting, day-costing box, of haunting and exhausting, cost and benefits of living or dying.
Where my temples feel encircled by a ponderous, piss taken python, who overloads my already fear alerted bulletin board with an enterprise of scripted, rank-ordered conflicts, stored alongside shaking finger tips.
An assemblage of hailstorm messages inherits a launch pad variety of cerebral authority and every already threaded, frightened, tightened nerve strives to heighten in an already ready to blow, pressure combat zone.
My high brows now in full row with a barrel-full of inferior ‘know-how’ badgers, an unsought vote superior like Thatcher.
Teeth gnawing, throat chomping, hearts seesawing and my belly buttons back-packs crawling.
And I get this elephant on my chest, a really tight undesired bliss from my throat to the bit just below my tits.
So, it’s difficult to breathe today.
There’s never enough air going inwards or lengthways on days like today.
I sit outside on days like today.
I sit outside a lot.